suspect that the woman there in the garden was as close to despair as she had ever been in her pleasant, sheltered life. She didn’t know what to do.
Then she thought, There’s no time for this. I have to keep going. I have to get out of here.
With a wistful glance at her favorite statue in the distance and a troubled glance at the big man who now stood with the tourists inspecting it, Nora turned around and retraced her steps. She moved quickly through the rooms to the entrance and down the walk to the street. The little driver, Jacques, was waiting for her, grinning and waving.
Chapter 11
The folded slip of paper was inside one of the gloves, in the space where the ring finger would go, which Nora thought was very clever. This message was written in neat block capitals instead of his familiar script, but as with the first one, it was encrypted specifically for her.
GOOT!—DIX ROSES POUR GRAND-TANTE J CE SOIR
Jacques had fetched the car and collected her in front of the museum, and she’d told him to just drive. He’d asked no questions; they’d sailed back the way they’d come, across the bridge, then turned right and proceeded along the Seine on the Quai des Tuileries, past the Louvre, heading east. He hummed a little tune under his breath as he drove.
She’d waited until they were well away from Musée Rodin before pulling the gloves from her bag and inspecting them. Now, in the backseat of the car, she smoothed the paper across her thigh, studying it, thinking how bizarre it was—coded messages and weird messengers. As much as all this might have appealed to the dramatic performer in her, it wasn’t nearly as romantic as she’d assumed it would be. She was too mature to be cast as an action figure, and violence held no allure. The idea of actual physical danger nauseated her. She wasn’t a hero; she was a wife, a mother, an actor who now taught her craft to bright young people. Well, the life she knew was obviously on hold for the time being. She forced herself to concentrate on the note.
GOOT!
was easy, thanks to her daughter’s incessant texting:
Get out of town!
It was meant as a joke, for emphasis, the equivalent of
I don’t believe you
. Their daughter used it so much that even Jeff had taken to putting it in his emails. Occasionally, Dana would also burst out with a heartfelt
Shut up!
which meant roughly the same thing. But not this time; Nora was certain of it. This time, the slangy acronym obviously meant precisely what it stated. She was being told to leave Paris. She knew where to go, and when:
Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir
. Very well, she thought. So be it.
“Jacques,” she said, “which train do I take to Besançon?”
The little man regarded her in the rearview mirror. “Besançon, mademoiselle? When would you wish to go?”
“Now. Immediately. I’ve—I’ve received a message from a friend asking me to go there. Well, not there, exactly, but nearby. A village in the Jura mountains, south of the city. I’ll need a train to Besançon, and then I suppose I can rent a car—”
“
Un moment,
mademoiselle.”
Nora stopped talking, aware of the urgency that had come into his voice. She watched him as he accelerated, glancing in the rearview mirror from time to time, though now he wasn’t looking at her but at something behind them. The car sped along the river, faster and faster, and Jacques suddenly turned the steering wheel, throwing the car sharply into the left lane, cutting off a taxi with only inches to spare. The cab driver blared his horn and shouted, but Jacques paid no attention. With another fierce twist of the wheel, he swerved into a full turn, across the lanes of oncoming traffic and into an avenue heading north, away from the waterfront.
The screech of brakes and the shrieks of a variety of horns let her know just how close they’d come to a collision with any number of cars heading west. She cringed at the sound, even as the car made yet another sharp
Then she thought, There’s no time for this. I have to keep going. I have to get out of here.
With a wistful glance at her favorite statue in the distance and a troubled glance at the big man who now stood with the tourists inspecting it, Nora turned around and retraced her steps. She moved quickly through the rooms to the entrance and down the walk to the street. The little driver, Jacques, was waiting for her, grinning and waving.
Chapter 11
The folded slip of paper was inside one of the gloves, in the space where the ring finger would go, which Nora thought was very clever. This message was written in neat block capitals instead of his familiar script, but as with the first one, it was encrypted specifically for her.
GOOT!—DIX ROSES POUR GRAND-TANTE J CE SOIR
Jacques had fetched the car and collected her in front of the museum, and she’d told him to just drive. He’d asked no questions; they’d sailed back the way they’d come, across the bridge, then turned right and proceeded along the Seine on the Quai des Tuileries, past the Louvre, heading east. He hummed a little tune under his breath as he drove.
She’d waited until they were well away from Musée Rodin before pulling the gloves from her bag and inspecting them. Now, in the backseat of the car, she smoothed the paper across her thigh, studying it, thinking how bizarre it was—coded messages and weird messengers. As much as all this might have appealed to the dramatic performer in her, it wasn’t nearly as romantic as she’d assumed it would be. She was too mature to be cast as an action figure, and violence held no allure. The idea of actual physical danger nauseated her. She wasn’t a hero; she was a wife, a mother, an actor who now taught her craft to bright young people. Well, the life she knew was obviously on hold for the time being. She forced herself to concentrate on the note.
GOOT!
was easy, thanks to her daughter’s incessant texting:
Get out of town!
It was meant as a joke, for emphasis, the equivalent of
I don’t believe you
. Their daughter used it so much that even Jeff had taken to putting it in his emails. Occasionally, Dana would also burst out with a heartfelt
Shut up!
which meant roughly the same thing. But not this time; Nora was certain of it. This time, the slangy acronym obviously meant precisely what it stated. She was being told to leave Paris. She knew where to go, and when:
Dix roses pour Grand-tante J ce soir
. Very well, she thought. So be it.
“Jacques,” she said, “which train do I take to Besançon?”
The little man regarded her in the rearview mirror. “Besançon, mademoiselle? When would you wish to go?”
“Now. Immediately. I’ve—I’ve received a message from a friend asking me to go there. Well, not there, exactly, but nearby. A village in the Jura mountains, south of the city. I’ll need a train to Besançon, and then I suppose I can rent a car—”
“
Un moment,
mademoiselle.”
Nora stopped talking, aware of the urgency that had come into his voice. She watched him as he accelerated, glancing in the rearview mirror from time to time, though now he wasn’t looking at her but at something behind them. The car sped along the river, faster and faster, and Jacques suddenly turned the steering wheel, throwing the car sharply into the left lane, cutting off a taxi with only inches to spare. The cab driver blared his horn and shouted, but Jacques paid no attention. With another fierce twist of the wheel, he swerved into a full turn, across the lanes of oncoming traffic and into an avenue heading north, away from the waterfront.
The screech of brakes and the shrieks of a variety of horns let her know just how close they’d come to a collision with any number of cars heading west. She cringed at the sound, even as the car made yet another sharp
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